


Promise Me under the Fire of the Hindenburg, Promise me in the Shadows of the Bunker

by Shadowmightwrite17



Series: The Fire of the Hindenburg, the Fire of the Warehouse [1]
Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Pre-Relationship, Set after the Kennedy Curse, sweet moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 13:33:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14403195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowmightwrite17/pseuds/Shadowmightwrite17
Summary: Garcia Flynn and Lucy Preston share a late night conversation while everyone in the bunker sleeps. Garcia reflects on the night of the Hindenburg, and the moment he met her two years before. He thinks of the future of them, and the present of her. All he knows is that the world will burn before anyone hurts Lucy.





	Promise Me under the Fire of the Hindenburg, Promise me in the Shadows of the Bunker

It’s a strange sort of feeling, spurred on by the blaze of fire and the petite brunette before him. Her eyes are so wide, her posture so vulnerable and uncertain. He sees the fear in her eyes, and he feels both burned and vindicated by it. Burned by this familiar stranger who does not know him, does not who and what she’ll become, and does not know that one day she will save his life. And he’s vindicated by her fear, because yes, he has done something terrible in the name of something great and finally, after all the careful planning and waiting, he has done something meaningful.

It burns to see the familiar stranger before him, who he knows everything about and who knows nothing of him. He knows her, knows the way her written word haunts him at night, giving glimpses of what he will do.

Around him is the destruction of the Hindenburg, a fire so great he feels the heat of it on his skin, and all he sees is her.  
It’s a memory he’ll never forget, and a memory he’ll visit often. That moment was monumental. It was the start of everything. That moment was theirs, and theirs alone.

The woman at the heart of the destructive inferno that he’s made his mission is standing a few feet away from him now, tonight, and her only focus is on getting a cup of tea ready. It’s late at night in this little bunker, and neither of them can sleep. So they tip-toe along the dark night and find their solitary ways to pass time, but now he’s meddling. Now he’s breaking the barrier of solitary night-time thinking. He’s a careful shadow in the background that has carefully been approaching her in silence, and she is the deity in human form who grants him everything and nothing.

“Are you going to say anything, or are just going to watch me?” She whispers lowly, pouring water from the kettle into her chipped grey mug.

“I wasn’t sure you wanted me to say anything,” He admits.

There’s a long silence before he speaks again. “You haven’t been sleeping much.” He observed.

“Neither have you,” She points out, barely glancing back at him.

“I suppose I’m too lost in thought to let myself sleep,” He muses.

She turns to him, a grim line across her lips as she considers him. “Thoughts on what exactly?” She whispers.

He doesn’t share. She frowns and looks away.

“I keep thinking about my mother.” She admits.

He nods. He couldn’t possibly blame her for that. The woman she idolized her entire existence is nothing like the woman she knows today. In a sense he understands, thinks of his own mother and her complicated life. The brother who exists, but he’ll never remember. He doesn’t know if she was happy afterwards. All he sees is that sad woman who loved him so much but was so afraid of the next day, afraid he would leave her too. Was there a happy mother with two sons who took her place then, and is it possible she’s alive today? He doesn’t know, he’s been too afraid to look.

“She was willing to let me die,” She whispers, to herself, not to him. She’s said it more than once now. The first, second, or even third, time has not been enough to let that sink in. The words need to be repeated until she understands them, and in her voice. No other voice, apart from maybe the woman who condemned her, will ever suffice.

It won’t stop him from trying.

“She didn’t want you to die. No parent truly wants their child to die.” He says. He hopes it’s a comfort, but he knows it’s not.

“She was willing to risk my life in some hope I would join her.” She restates. There’s something argumentative and contradictory in her tone that begs him to argue with her, tell her she’s wrong or let her prove she’s right, to give her something she can fight, even if it’s only momentary.

He’s sorry to say he denies that to her tonight. A fight isn’t what she needs, but she doesn’t know what she needs or what she wants. Tonight he denies her any argument.

She hums at his silence, and she looks down at the mug in her hands. “I will die before I help her.”

He flinches at the word. He can’t picture a world without her. It’s unnatural and unwelcome. He’ll end the world, burn it to a crisp, before he lets anyone touch her. No one he loves will die ever again.

Because he loves her, doesn’t he.

It’s that truth, the one he keeps to himself, that often keeps him up at night.

He loves her.

There’s no doubt in his mind.

“It will never come to that,” He states, an edge of determination in his voice.

She looks to him, something uncertain there. She’s heard that promise from others, but they’ve all disappointed her in some way. He wonders if he’s done that too, somewhere in time, and he prays he has not. Then there’s a touch of a smile twisting at the corners of her mouth, and he thinks she believes him. Or is at least willing to believe him. Maybe he hasn’t disappointed her yet, and so the words sing of something more truthful than anyone who came before.

The mother who promised to protect her. The lover who promised to never let anything happen to her.

The enemy turned friend who promises the same is something different then.

Because she never put any hope in him before, never gave him something to disappoint her with, and now he’s promised her something, and he damn well better keep to that. He won’t be another person to disappoint her. The world will burn first.

She looks down again. “I wish I had dropped that grenade in the mothership in 1914,” She whispers.

He stills, horrified. He’d heard they’d found her in 1914, and that she had believed them to be dead. Nobody told him she was ready to throw her life away for a cause she never should have been dragged into.

“The grenade,” He repeats slowly, his voice weak.

She looks up at him. “I was going to walk into the mothership with my mother and I was going to drop a grenade the second the doors closed.” There’s fire in her eyes, and the Hindenburg feels too long ago and only moments ago. “I made that decision the second I agreed to join her for the mission.”

He’s so struck by the statement. Horrified and in awe.

He approaches her, in shaky steps. She watches him warily, but she sees the dark fear in his eyes, and she understands.

“It never came to that though.” She whispers, a reminder.

He takes another careful, shaky step. She sets the mug on the table beside her.

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” She whispers as he stands over her.

He pulls her into his arms, and she lets him. “It will never come to that,” He repeats his promise.

She presses her cheek to his chest, buries herself in his arms, and holds onto him with something desperate in her chest. She lets him become something safe that can protect her. Isn’t that what she’s needed for so long now?

“No, it won’t.” It’s not an agreement, it’s a promise. She’ll fight, always, and she’ll always come back.

He wonders if she understands the gravity of this moment.

She doesn’t pull away. “We’ll always fight together, won’t we,” She whispers.

He thinks she does understand the gravity of what she’s saying.

Maybe now she accepts that there’s something more permanent to them than she’s ever given them credit for being. Maybe now she accepts that if there’s a fate and a destiny pulling at her strings, and it’s been pulling his too, pulling them until they meet. There’s a sunlit park in their past, and a dimly lit living room that’s seen hell in their future. Her future really, that connects to their past.

There’s something about the way she looked at him the moment he met her those two years ago. Something longing and sad. He thought then that she understood his pain and wanted to offer him redemption. A moment or two ago he thought maybe she was looking at him in the beginning, seeing a person different from the one she knew, similar to the way he looked at her under the fire of the Hindenburg, knowing she was different from the woman he knew in the journal. Now he wonders if she anticipated that moment being her last of him, that maybe it was a future that ended him, and this was her last chance to see him. A moment so important she risked returning to a time she existed just to offer him this thread that would one day lead him to her. Was that moment the moment their story together came full circle and began to loop itself infinitely, a future and past bound by destiny that could never end or be completed, always renewing itself with something different from before.

“Together,” He promises, and hopes for a future where together means something much more complicated and simplistic than it does tonight.

She sniffles, and he realizes now she’s crying. He pulls away to look at the two tears sliding down her cheeks, and in an impulsive moment he touches his hands to her cheeks, and he brushes away the tears with his calloused thumbs.

She smiles at the touch, something weak and sad. He burns to kiss that sad smile away and breathe life to a new smile that only knows happiness and hope.

Her delicate hands rest upon his, and hold them to her cheeks, letting this moment linger.

He wonders if she understands just what she’s doing.

She smiles. It’s happier this time.

The world can drift on without them, and leave them in this moment. This moment belongs to them, and only them.  
In another life he would kiss her right now. Tonight he pulls away gently, wishes her a goodnight, and hopes that one day he may be brave enough to kiss her. Hopes that one day he’ll be so lucky that she’ll kiss him back.

**Author's Note:**

> In the past I've heavily shipped Lyatt, but rewatching the first season and watching this new season has given me reason for Garcy. I'm a little stuck in between, but right now I lean more towards Garcy.  
> I haven't written in third person for some time, but this came out wonderfully. It's a bit different from any third person narrative I've done before, but maybe that makes it better.


End file.
